The Couch
by TheDevilYouDon't
Summary: He wasn't laughing now, though. Mostly because he hadn't expected to ever really been sleeping out on the couch. Draco/Ginny. Post-DH.


**Yay. Another Draco/Ginny story. Woop woop.**

_The Couch_

Draco's just glad that he insisted on buying a comfortable couch.

She'd wanted something a little more "elegant," but he had insisted that they would be much happier if they went for comfort instead of appearance. She'd put up a fight, but he'd won after the comment about how he'd be the one sleeping on it, after all. She'd even laughed and he'd chuckled too. It had been a joke, after all.

He wasn't laughing now, though. Mostly because he hadn't expected to ever really been sleeping out on the couch.

They'd fought. He knows that much, but he can't really remember what had started it. He'd had to work late and he'd come in tired. She'd been waiting, disappointed and sad and sitting on the couch he'd desperately wanted so many months ago. He can remember that she'd had the binder in her lap, open to a random page (it was the binder that she'd been using for wedding plans—every last detail planned out inside of it—and she'd been working on it since they'd gotten engaged, practically. He knew that she wanted it to be perfect—hell, he does too).

And she'd just been sitting there on the couch with it open, staring at it. He hadn't even noticed the used up tissues and tired, wet state of her eyes until he'd hung up his coat and set his bag on the front dresser.

"Honey?" he'd asked—in what he presumed to be a calm voice. "Are you alright?"

She hadn't given him an answer; not really. Instead, she'd started yelling at him, throwing little words to make him angry. And it had worked, too. He'd gotten mad and started yelling right back and, pretty soon, it didn't matter what had started the fight—they were fighting about _everything_ (work, friends, family, the past). At one point, she'd even thrown the binder at him.

It hadn't hurt, of course (it was only a binder). But it wasn't so much _what_ she'd thrown so much as the fact that she'd _thrown _something at him in an attempt at harming him.

That sure as hell had knocked him into a calm state. He'd tried once again to reason with her, following her upstairs and towards their room. She'd ignored him, though, and locked the door in his face.

Which is why he's lying on the couch in a dark and quiet house.

The fact that it's dark is normal, but the silence unnerves him almost completely. After he'd proposed (in the backyard of the Burrow, no less), they'd bought the house together, setting the wedding date and planning to fill the house with kids. Of course, they weren't married yet. That much should be obvious. But, the silence reminds him that it's his fault that they're _not_ and it burrows deeper into his chest with an almost unbearable pain each time the clock on the wall above the TV clicks.

Work had gotten in the way. No, that's wrong. Correction: he'd _let_ work get in the way. They'd told him his hours and he'd postponed the wedding twice because they'd needed him those days. And, she'd said she was fine with it, hadn't she?

He sighs and runs a hand over his face because she obviously wasn't as okay with it as she'd let on. That's when he tells himself that he's absolutely ridiculous. He should have known that she wasn't—isn't he supposed to be her better half or something like that?

It's this thought that makes him pull the blanket off of himself and get to his feet, socks padding quietly on the wooden stairs as he goes. He tiptoes down the hall and opens the bedroom door, which, thank Merlin, she'd unlocked.

She's lying on the bed with the covers drawn up to her waist, but he knows that she isn't sleeping. Her breathing is far too fast for that. So, he crawls up the bed and lies behind her, arms going around her waist and pulling her into his chest firmly.

"I'm sorry," he whispers into the night and she sighs quietly.

"I know." She shifts a bit and he breathes in the strawberry scent of her hair, committing it to memory without really trying. "I am too."

"What do you have to be sorry about?"

"I shouldn't have reacted so violently," she explains, drawing tiny hearts on his hand, wrist brushing over the thin, blond hairs on his arm.

"You'd had every right to," he tells her, pressing a kiss into her hair—it always surprises him how it could still be so _red_, even in the moonlight. "Work doesn't come before you."

"No, it shouldn't."

"Which is why I'm sorry. You're my world, Ginny. You know that, right?"

She nods. "You're mine too, Draco."

"I wanna marry you." He smiles into the back of her head and closes his eyes.

"I want to marry you too."

"Good."

"Definitely."

"Now that that's settled…"

"What?"

"I dunno…It's just…there's romantic moonlight and I'm pretty sure that I'm not gonna be able to sleep tonight. That couch isn't all it's cracked up to be."

"I told you it wasn't the one I wanted."

"Not that it's not comfortable—I was definitely right in that fact and you were wrong. It's just…you wouldn't let me have my favorite pillow."

"You don't have a favorite pillow."

"Yes, I do." 

"Oh, really?"

"Of course, Ginny Weasley. _You_ are my favorite pillow," he says with a smile.

And when she laughs—a nice laugh that makes her shake in his arms and against his chest—Draco knows what poets write about.

**Cheesy endings aren't **_**just **_**for Harmonie readers, you know.**


End file.
